of feathers and rebellion
by effulgentcolors
Summary: Aziraphale had read the expression "heart aflutter" in countless books but this was the first time he truly understood it. He supposed humans used it because they didn't have wings.


my first humble offering to the ineffable husbands fandom - what if Aziraphale's wings had their own feelings about Crowley?

* * *

At first, he thought it was an Earth thing. After all, the first time it happened was in the Garden, as he felt the humidity of the oncoming rain slipping between his feathers – not necessarily a pleasant sensation but alleviated by the steady gusts of wind coming from the east and completely obscured by the insistent tug to the left that he felt at the sight of the gathering dark clouds.

Without his volition, Aziraphale's wing was lifting and stretching, primaries curling slightly to form a shelter for the demon beside him. There was an unusual tension running through the bones of his wings (there had been an anxious little ball in Aziraphale's stomach ever since he was stationed here, given this heavy responsibility, flaming sword and all, but this was a different kind of tension altogether – one that ran from one phalanx to the other and left an insistent itch right between his wings, where he wouldn't be able to reach even if he tried).

Then the demon shuffled closer and Aziraphale wondered at the soft sigh in his feathers, the pleased flutter of his coverts, settling almost contently despite the chilly drops that were soon tapping against their surface – their suddenly very determined and resilient surface.

Really at this point Aziraphale was being ridiculous. Angel wings weren't sentient. Not really. They were extremely sensitive and rather well-attuned to their owner's feelings but, seeing as Aziraphale hadn't formed any particular feelings toward storms yet – the wetness was rather inconvenient but there was something fascinatingly cleansing about the whole thing – and Crowley's words had somewhat smoothed over his most pressing worries about the sword, he didn't really understand why his wings were being so… willful.

It was only logical – reasonable, perfectly sensible – to assume that Earth was the cause of it – a place made for the humans, not for beings like him and Crowley with their decidedly unearthly wings.

Really, looking at it this way, it was completely understandable that Aziraphale's wings would tense and toughen and tingle with this strange protectiveness, uncertain of this world that they found themselves in, perhaps even a tad afraid of it.

"Oh, poor dears."

"What was that?"

Aziraphale turned to look at the demon – his red hair somehow still shining under the combined shadow of the rain clouds and Aziraphale's wing – and felt the tingle down his humerus again. Perhaps they felt threatened by this hellish presence as well. This was also perfectly logical and Aziraphale soothed them in his mind, promising that the demon beside him posed no danger and surprising even himself with how confident he sounded.

"Oh, nothing. Just… the storm, on their first day all alone." He waved in the direction of Adam and Eve and watched Crowley's head follow his motion with a hum of agreement.

Aziraphale meant to look away as well but then one of his secondaries drooped a little – usually a perfectly normal occurrence, currently a sharp contrast to the disciplined arch of all the rest – the white of it such a stunning contrast to the crimson strands it brushed against that Aziraphale didn't think there was anything more pleasing he could turn his gaze on at this moment.

/

"Really now," the angel muttered under his breath and pulled his shoulder blades tighter together, trying to reign in the fluttering wings that wanted to explode from his back and into the confined space of the Ark's bowels. "It is neither the place, nor the time."

This, it must be pointed out, was an unusual situation. Aziraphale did not normally talk to his wings as if they were unruly pets. Of course, his wings didn't usually _behave_ like unruly pets, they didn't take it upon themselves to decide when they should be let out and how they should be used. As a matter of fact, Aziraphale had hardly heard a peep – or felt a tingle, as it is – from them since the Garden. He'd all but forgotten about the surprising current that had coursed through him back there, on top of the Eastern gate, the lack of control over his own form that he'd experienced for the first time.

It seemed that he was due for a reminder.

The angel felt a full-body shudder go through him, his calami feeling like ants crawling under his skin, itching to get out. He shook himself – to get rid of the sensation and to somehow regain control over the previous involuntary shudder with this purposeful one. Then he turned around.

This was a mistake. His eyes had adjusted to the gloom and now he could almost perfectly make out the scene he'd stumbled upon. Crowley's ruby red locks drew Aziraphale's gaze like a lighthouse in the dark, illuminating all the rest – the way the demon's arms were folded around a young child – a baby really, couldn't be more than a year old – holding him against his chest, the shock of light skin and golden hair against his thigh where a little girl had squished her face, and the shape leaning against his shoulder – hard to make out, wrapped up in Crowley's black shawl as it was, but vaguely human-shaped – a small human, with their knees drawn up under their chin and their little hands wrapped around Crowley's arm.

The ship groaned and lurched – in his sleep Crowley instinctively clutched the baby closer, the blonde girl whined, the body huddled in Crowley's shawl shivered. Crowley shivered harder.

With a burst Aziraphale's wings elbowed their way past his tremulous control and emerged in this plane of existence – one of constant rain and turbulent seas, dampness and so much suffering. A dozen small white feathers fluttered to the grimy wood beneath his feet – it could be that he hadn't preened in a while but Aziraphale knew better, he knew they were a sign of the inner struggle that had started between angel and wings as soon as he'd stepped inside.

"Fine. Satisfied now?"

Aziraphale was an angel and as such he did not growl, so far in history he hadn't even snapped, but the disobedient things on his back were truly testing his patience. And apparently they were not satisfied yet.

Aziraphale realized who was steering the ship of his own corporation only when he was already looming over Crowley and his small band of drenched humans. He tried to put his wings away with a snap, then he tried again – his feet clicking together at the heels and his spine going ramrod straight and achieving nothing but looking ridiculous. A couple more tries led to the same result, namely – none.

He was preparing his next attempt when another shiver made its way from Crowley to all the forms attached to him. Aziraphale's eyebrows pulled together and, for a moment, he relinquished whatever control he still had over his wings. Of course, that was all they needed and before he knew it they were _reaching_.

Now, in the last few minutes, Aziraphale had considered and dismissed two of his primary theories concerning this anomaly. The first being that his wings grew agitated during storms, which was obviously incorrect, seeing as Aziraphale had been in more than one storm between the first rain and this (hopefully) last flood, some of them certainly the result of divine will and some just exercises of nature's freedom.

His second theory, uncomfortable as that made him, was centered around the demon at his feet. It was unavoidable, seeing as Crowley was the only other common factor between the two events that the angel could pinpoint. However, that supposition also collapsed under further observation – the shivering demon, wrapped in sleeping children, was as much of a threat as the wet doves huddled somewhere in the great hull above them.

The sudden snap of his wings almost made Aziraphale lose his balance and tumble to the ground. More tired than annoyed at this point, the angel didn't so much decide to change his tactic as he surrendered to the pressure at his back and tried to relax his muscles. He didn't bother with the wings themselves, his lack of control over them was concerningly obvious at this point.

When he actually started to listen to the buzzing between his scapulars and tertiaries, he was shocked he hadn't heard it earlier. Willing in his curiosity and his aversion to fighting a part of himself, Aziraphale kneeled and sat back on his heels. His knees were less than a palm print away from where Crowley's were folded to one side. His wings didn't even wait for Aziraphale to make himself comfortable, reaching forward and encasing demon and children in soft, white plumage.

Aziraphale watched with bated breath as Crowley's face scrunched up rather endearingly – this was a mere fact, not Aziraphale's personal opinion, of course – but then the demon's features relaxed back into slumber and the angel sighed in relief.

When he looked down, a pair of bright blue eyes were staring up at him – wide and a little frightened. As the girl's bony fingers tightened to whiteness around Crowley's leg, Aziraphale felt the barb of her fear sink where he supposed his body's heart resided. He smiled reassuringly, not letting it wobble, and lifted a finger to his lips – slowly, tentatively, non-threatening and _sorry, so very very sorry for all of this_. The girl considered him for only another second or two before she turned her head and buried her face further into Crowley's robe and the thin thigh underneath.

Reasonably, the demon couldn't have made a very good pillow and Aziraphale did his best to present this argument to the inexplicable longing that had bloomed somewhere around the girl's barb of fear. Then again, the angel's current position should have been rather uncomfortable as well – knees pressed against the perpetually damp wood and his back bent slightly forward so his primaries could meet and close the warm cocoon – but all of those small discomforts paled in comparison to the immense relief he felt, the calmness that had settled where inner struggle had raged just a few short moments ago. The buzz at the base of his wings had turned into a soft hum and he could feel the warmth collecting and radiating inside them.

/

It took him a while, he would admit that – a few millennia, if we were being precise about it – but eventually he could hardly ignore the fact that those bouts of rebellion (he could tell his wings didn't like that term and Aziraphale, in one of his rare – he would claim – moments of spite, stuck with it exactly for that reason) must be connected to Crowley in some way or other.

It wasn't that they always got rebellious when the demon was around – although there was always this awareness about them when he was, this alertness (Aziraphale would call it eagerness, if the connotations didn't make him experience the sudden urge to manifest sweat glands) – but they certainly never did when he wasn't.

Rain remained a trigger of sorts but Aziraphale had learnt that carrying an umbrella and spreading it over himself and Crowley generally defused the tension at his back. On the rare occasion when Crowley beat him to it, Aziraphale got an itch right between his shoulder blades, that spot he couldn't possibly reach, and had to put up with this preferred demonstration of petulance for the rest of the day.

Then there was fire. Fire that singed and covered his white feathers in a cloying layer of ash, fire that couldn't possibly hurt Crowley but if Aziraphale's wings listened to reason, he would have gotten them in line a long time ago. The angel was glad that there had been few big fires in Earth's history that both he and Crowley were present for. He could still remember the smoke of the last one choking his human lungs and he was certain his scapulars were still vibrating at a frequency unidentified by either Heaven or Hell from having Crowley's fingers moving through them – cleaning ash and cooling burns, while berating Aziraphale as if Aziraphale had any control over the holy things (as if Aziraphale would've done any different if he did), while the angel tried his best to placate and cajole and convince his feathers to not go into an absolute frenzy.

It wasn't precise knowledge but it was better than the confusion he had stumbled along with for a large part of his stay on Earth, half-convinced that he must report this deficiency to a superior and fully aware of the condescending tone and vaguely disgusted look that he will receive from Gabriel if he ever revealed that _an angel of the Lord had no control over his own wings. _Might as well tell him about the sword too.

So it was fine. It had to be. He didn't know exactly what his wings wanted – they wanted something alright, whenever they made themselves heard or present it was hard to avoid the nudging dissatisfaction within them – but they had achieved a balance of sorts, an agreement that Aziraphale would at least try to _listen_ and they wouldn't just spring out in the middle of dinner because Crowley choked on an olive.

/

He chose to do it in the car on purpose. Ever since 1862 the arrangement had been tremulous at best (not _the_ Arrangement – that had been put on hold indefinitely it seemed – but the one he had with his unruly wings and_ Lord, why did Aziraphale need all these rules to coexist with everything closest to him_). He hadn't itched for a day after that afternoon at St James's Park, he'd felt as if his spine would bruise from the beating against it that went on intermittently for over a month before his wings exhausted themselves, before they slumped over in the plane that he had been exercising all his will to keep them contained in. It hadn't felt like a victory, it had felt very much like he'd turned his back on yet another part of himself.

Then 1941 had opened a whole new bag of feathers. They'd been quiet for a long time – troublesome or not, Aziraphale was sure he would have missed them, if he hadn't been too busy missing other things. This was probably why Crowley managed to get through his little bit without being interrupted by an explosion of a different sort – one more reminiscent of a pillow fight than a Nazi attack.

After, when they were safe, when his books were being passed into his hand, Aziraphale had experienced more human phenomena than ever before – heart rattling the bars of his chest, eyes stinging to the point of obscuring the world, palms sweating and lungs constricting. For once, he didn't need to clench his fists and tense his spine, his mouth felt soft and a little numb, his eyes wide and glassy and somehow obscured and open for the first time, and behind him another explosion finally took place – on a plane that his wings wanted to leave but couldn't focus enough to escape.

Aziraphale had read the expression "heart aflutter" in countless books but this was the first time he truly understood it. He supposed humans used it because they didn't have wings.

So he did it in the car because he understood them now. He felt for them (he felt with them), ached for them (ached with them), but they had always been thoughtless things, so brazen about their desires and affections, so unafraid. So Aziraphale had to be considerate and cautious and yes, afraid. He had to be afraid for them, had to keep them in check, keep them from embarrassing themselves or doing any irreparable damage.

He did it in the car because there was no space for them to manifest without disrupting things and there was an angel and a demon and a thermos and he knew they would never dare, never risk it, knew they were not _that_ thoughtless, not with this, not with him. Didn't mean that spot on his back didn't burn for days after. He almost welcomed it.

/

The end of the world is not so bad really. Yes, at one point, Aziraphale has a flaming sword in his hand and liquid fire running in his radii and his wings ready to carry him blindly into whatever threat – the biggest there can be – has brought Crowley to his knees. But then Crowley stops it all and takes them to a place where letting his wings stretch and unfurl is not even a conscious thought. A world where Aziraphales stretches his neck and rotates his shoulders and hears his primaries sing in liberation and in the presence of Crowley's own black ones.

The trials are trickier. They exchange wings as well as corporations, just to be sure, just in case Heaven makes Crowley manifest them – he is certain Hell will not. And Aziraphale is anxious and the tiniest bit curious as well, but then Crowley comes back, returns his wings and doesn't say a thing about them misbehaving and really Aziraphale should've known they won't cause _him_ any trouble.

/

Crowley comes inside accompanied by a whirlwind of snowflakes. No hat, no scarf. Aziraphale doesn't even want to ask, he's sure it's something to do with _ruining his aesthetics. _Though it doesn't stop the demon from heading straight for the fireplace and snapping his fingers impatiently, making it roar to life at what is certainly fire-hazard speed. His long legs fold like an accordion as he plops down before the fire, rubbing his hands together, one shiver feeding off of the next one.

It happens so quickly that Aziraphale doesn't even have time to clear some space, resulting in his wings knocking down two separate piles of books.

"Oh, dear."

The angel turns his head to glare at the fluttering feathers which are doing an admirable job of pushing him towards the demon in the room. It's been a long time since he couldn't even contain them in the appropriate plane of existence but he supposes a shivering Crowley who has verbally declared his love for all things Aziraphale mere weeks ago is a bit too much for them to handle. He can't say he blames them.

"Angel, everything alright? What's with the featherworks?"

Aziraphale's chuckle is embarrassed at best as he lets himself move closer and sit on the floor beside Crowley, trying to keep an optimal distance between the fireplace and his feathers, which seem completely oblivious to the crackling flames. Crowley removes his sunglasses and turns toward him, face soft and undeniably curious.

"Well, you see— stop it!" Aziraphale makes a grab for his right wing as it reaches eagerly for the demon – it's like holding the leash of a huge dog that has just spotted it's favourite human. "Give me a chance to explain."

"Uhhhm, Aziraphale, who are you talking to?"

Even as he asks, Crowley's eyes leave Aziraphale's face and drink in the sight of his wings – arched above the angel and trembling slightly. The demon raises a hand and—

"Don't!"

Crowley jerks back at the same time as Aziraphale's wings clap angrily. The angel would be worried for his back, if he wasn't drowning in the crushed look on Crowley's face.

"Oh, no, I didn't— Dearest, I didn't mean—"

"Is fine," Crowley mutters and averts his eyes, stuffing both his hands underneath his thighs as if to prove that he won't do it again.

"It's just that they will get so overexcited, I don't even know—"

"Overexcited?"

Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer and then the leash snaps completely. His wings unfurl around them – brilliantly white, soft and gleaming and bigger than Aziraphale can ever remember them. In the next second, they slam forward and encase Crowley between two walls of white feathers, pulling him closer until his knees bump into Aziraphale's.

"Aziraphale?!" "I can explain!"

Crowley pokes at a primary covert experimentally and Aziraphale can practically hear the feather purr at the contact, the wall of white folding even closer, somehow turning softer, growing warmer.

"I don't think they will let you out until you're sufficiently warm."

"_They_ won't let me out?"

"They— I can't… I can't really control them when they get like this, alright?"

Crowley blinks at him for a few seconds and, despite the embarrassment clawing at his throat, Aziraphale finds himself unavoidably distracted by the colours before him. The feathers mute the shop's lights, turning them tender, and among them Crowley's hair looks like glowing embers, his eyes two golden rings dropped in the fire and shining bright and immutable. Aziraphale gulps audibly and watches Crowley tip his head to one side.

"Angel?"

Aziraphale shakes his head, feels the feathers rustle as if in warning – _don't you dare pull away_. He glares at them.

"He is here because of me, you know?" He sounds haughty and more than a little put out.

"Stop talking to your wings as if _I'm _not here."

"I'm sorry, love." Aziraphale's eyes try to give Crowley a beseeching and apologetic look while maintaining a firm glare at his wings – the result makes him go a little cross-eyed. "But they tend to be frightfully self-centered."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to explain that again because I'm pretty sure my wings have never had a personality."

"Oh, I wouldn't call it a personality, per se, rather they have…"

Aziraphale looks over Crowley's shoulder in an attempt to temper his blush – a horrible idea, seeing as now he is staring at his feathers pressing gently against the back of Crowley's head. He is fairly certain there are a few primaries sliding up and down the demon's back.

"They have?"

"Desires."

Crowley's eyebrows climb up his forehead.

"Your wings have desires."

"Yes. No. I— I can't explain it properly. They…" He looks Crowley in the eyes again – bright and curious on the surface, loving at the foundation – and he breathes out slowly. "They get very excited, when you are around. And very… protective."

The demon tips his head back and looks at the dome of white plumage they are encased in. The light must paint some of the wonder and awe on Crowley's face, for Aziraphale isn't sure how he can be the object of so pure an emotion otherwise.

"They are constantly reaching for you."

"Since when?"

"Since forever."

Crowley gives him a doubtful look and even that feels soft and smooth, as if it's already half melted away at the mere possibility that Aziraphale is telling the truth. He assures him that he is.

An hour seems to be enough to ensure that Crowley is now perfectly warm and comfortable, if the gradual relaxation of Aziraphale's wings is anything to go by.

The angel would complain but really, once they tangle their legs together and miracle a bottle of wine between them, the crackling of the fire and the warmth and soft light in their cocoon make the whole thing rather romantic. And Aziraphale is relieved to not find himself slapped in the face by a wild wing when he presses his lips to Crowley's – having to compete for his demon's affection with his own wings would have been a step too far.

They move to the couch eventually – one angelic wing enveloping the demon's shoulders as soon as they sit down – and come to the conclusion that as long as Crowley is comfortable and content, Aziraphale's wings are satisfied and calmly besotted.

Well, calmly might be a bit of an exaggeration.

Crowley's dubious decision to compliment the bloody— holy things leads to such a flutter of activity that a stray covert nearly pokes his eye out.

"Oh, now that's just— I'm so sorry, love, they have terribly poor discipline."

Aziraphale tries to shoo the now anxiously hovering wing as he runs his thumb over Crowley's cheek.

"It's fine. It's—" the sparkle in Crowley's half-closed eye is a diabolical mix of indulgence and teasing. "It's actually quite adorable, angel."

Aziraphale wants to point out how _he _will certainly never be allowed to get away with such a statement but he loses track of that thought as Crowley reaches up and gently smooths the fluttering feathers between his thumb and forefinger. Aziraphale has no doubt that if wings could turn liquid, his would have done so a dozen times by now.

"You said you— they've always wanted to reach out?" Crowley's tone is careful, the vocal equivalent of applying super glue.

Aziraphale shuffles closer.

"I wanted to reach out just as badly. I just think they knew it much sooner. And were much louder about it."

Crowley hums, leans further into him, runs his fingers down another secondary.

"You know those parents who don't let their children have any sweets."

Aziraphale blinks a few times, shakes off the whiplash and considers before nodding slightly. He is not certain which side propagates that.

"So when they finally get their hands on some, they gorge themselves until they are sick."

Aziraphale's face scrunches up before he feels a light tug – his left wing trying to droop down and cover Crowley's feet. The demon obligingly lifts them onto the couch and the metaphor hits Aziraphale as he watches white feathers practically spill themselves over Crowley's lap.

"Oh. Well, that's—"

"I promise not to make your wings sick," Crowley swears in mock-seriousness.

"I hardly think that's a possibility, dearest. More likely the other way around really. I'm afraid they can be quite suffocating and bothersome when—"

"He can be terribly rude sometimes, can't he?"

Aziraphale sputters in indignation at being accused of rudeness by Crowley of all beings. Crowley who has turned his head to the side and is nuzzling into angelic plumage now.

Aziraphale's attempts to contort his face into some expression of displeasure are doomed to failure as he feels pure bliss flow from his outer vanes all the way to that spot between his shoulder blades. Bliss feels a lot like honey apparently – sticky warm and sweet and like you will never be able to get it out – but why would you even want to.

Really, he should've known they will unite against him at the first opportunity. He should've known it isn't about Earth at all. He should've known it's all about Crowley.


End file.
